A writing blog to improve on the basics

The Blackwells – The Morning After

The morning
light glittered off the crystal carafe as Vithian poured Othorion the sweet
mint tea. Ulesse had set a lovely table for the family’s breakfast in the
garden. Bowls overflowed with apricots and cherries. Raspberries, blackberries,
and strawberries were layered with thick cream next to diamond-cut mangos. The
scent of roasted hare and cold ham mingled with the hyacinth, peony, and
primrose scattered around them. There was a salad of dandelion greens, spring
onions, and kale and roasted asparagus, artichokes, fiddlehads, and fennel. The
air was cool in their mother’s garden, which bloomed gloriously.

It was a
spread that neither Vithian nor Othorion were used to anymore. Postulants often
didn’t eat breakfast, and sailors had hardtack or gruel and, if they’re
fortunate, salted beef, and a lemon or lime just to fend off scurvy. Returning
home was a treat for the two.

“I think
Ulesse missed us,” Othorion said, helping himself to another serving of berries
and cream.

“This is
the work of Firma, I’m certain,” Vithian replied. “I think he’s happy to have
so many to cook for again.”

Othorion
chuckled. “If he needs more to do, he’s welcome on the Aurora.”

“I don’t
know if we even have a cook at the sequester.”

Vithian sat
back in his chair, sipping his tea as he looked over the garden. It had been
their mother’s favorite place in Heliohart, and Vithian couldn’t blame her. It
was so cleverly planted that it bloomed throughout the year, filled with soft
touches and sweet scents and bright colors. There were many places to hide, to
be alone, and each of the siblings had their favorite spot. Vithian’s was under
a shade maple, its red-leafed boughs nearly touching the mossy ground beneath
it. Vithian could cuddle beneath it amongst the ferns for hours, just to be
alone. Vithian smirked to himself – he didn’t hide away often. He preferred to
be around people.

“How did
you enjoy last night?” Vithian asked Othorion.

“Oh, very
well. It was a lovely ball, wasn’t it?”

“Hmm,”
Vithian said, watching his brother. “It was an interesting one, anyway. You had
a favorite, I think.”

A blush
colored Othorion’s cheeks briefly, and he shook his head. “No, I assure you. I
very much enjoyed all my dance partners last night.”

“Partners?
Othorion, did you dance with anyone other than Yuven Vetsian?”

“Of course,
I did!”

The
brothers kept each other’s gaze for a few heartbeats before Othorion broke into
a grin and shook his head. “I suppose I favored Merioleth, didn’t I?”

“Jaonos and
I were wondering if the date had been set for your wedding.”

Othorion
threw his napkin at Vithian, and the two laughed.

“You two
are awfully loud first thing in the morning,” Jaonos said as he and Ynaselle
joined their brothers. Jaonos wore an irritable expression and slumped down in
the chair to Vithian’s left. Vithian could guess he was hungover, which Vithian
found impressive since alcohol was only served after a nearly half hour toast
given by members of both the Heliohart and Passerine families to the newly
affianced.

Ynaselle,
on the other hand, was pale. Her eyes were red and puffy, and Vithian could see
faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She offered him a weak smile,
though, as she took a seat across from Jaonos.

“We were
just celebrating Othorion’s new engagement,” Vithian said as he poured tea for
Jaonos and Ynaselle.

“Hmm, well,
she is a pretty girl,” Jaonos said into his cup.

“I like
her,” Ynaselle said. “I’m determined to make her a friend of mine. I’m going to
have her and all the Tarnyns over to dinner.”

“Well, most
of them,” Vithian added for him and the two exchanged glances. Vithian knew
that Othorion wasn’t going to say that.

Ynaselle
sighed, her hands hovering over the bowl of berries and cream. “I don’t
understand Nithnael. I don’t remember her being so… so cold when we were
children.”

“You
don’t?” Othorion asked.

“Was she
like that in Treserra?”

Othorion
took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. His gaze moved upward toward the
canopy of leaves above them as he thought. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.
“She thought very highly of herself, still does, from what I can tell. She was
always pretty and intelligent, but she struck me as being… resentful.”

“Resentful?”

“At her own
position in life. Yna, she was so cruel to you. Don’t you remember? Remember
when we were learning ink painting? She kept trying to correct everything you
did until you gave it up altogether. She never gave you a compliment – she just
kept trying to insult you. Oh, she was polite about it, but she resented you
were a Lord’s child and she wasn’t.”

Ynaselle
frowned to herself. She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her pointed ear,
still staring down at her own plate. “I suppose so,” she finally admitted.

“A social
climber,” Jaonos said and shrugged. “In the position to do it, I suppose.”

“But,
Alennia is such a lovely girl,” Ynaselle said. “She’s terribly shy. She
shouldn’t have any friends at all if her family didn’t drag her out into
society.”

“Invite
them all over,” Vithian said. “It should still be a pleasant evening, anyway.”

Jaonos
chuckled to himself, then placed his glass back on the table, put his head in
his hands, and laughed out loud. Vithian, Othorion, and Ynaselle all glanced at
each other, trying to think of the joke.

“What’s so
funny, Jaonos?” Vithian asked.

“I was just
thinking,” Jaonos said, waving his hand in front of his face, “how funny it
would be should Othorion actually marry Yuven Vetisan.”

“Jaonos!”
Ynaselle gasped.

“Oh, I
don’t mean that!” Jaonos replied. “It’d be quite the scandal, though. Who are
the Vetsians, after all? Poor farmers, Lady Erro tells me. When Master Tarnyn
married, there was uproar that he should marry someone so far below him. And
should our dear little Othorion, so dutiful and conscientious, marry her
sister! A Blackwell! Marry a poor farmer!” Jaonos laughed again. “The
thought of Othorion as part of such a
scandal, any scandal!”

Othorion’s
face had grown a deep red as Jaonos spoke. Ynaselle squeezed his hand, but
Othorion pulled his hand away.

“I don’t
think father would approve of the connection,” Vithian admitted.

“Father?
Lady Erro would have a fit!” Jaonos replied. “She’s been wanting to marry us
all off since we were children, and if Othorion, of all of us, were to sabotage
her plans by marrying a poor farmer! Thory, you must! For me, you must marry
that girl!”

“Oh, I
shouldn’t approve of the connection, either,” Othorion said, the floridity
draining from his face as he regained his composure, but he didn’t meet anyone’s
gaze. “I’m still just a lieutenant, and I haven’t even known her for a day.”

“Well, for
myself, I think she’s charming,” Vithian said. He leaned his chin against his
hand and watched Ynaselle. “You’re peaky this morning, Yna. And you left very
early last evening. Are you well?”

“I’m well,”
Ynaselle said, but Vithian noticed that how very interested she was in arranging
her greens on her plate. “Father was tired last night and wanted to come home
after greeting Prince Heliohart.”

“Hmm,”
Jaonos said. They all knew that Ynaselle had wanted to avoid the younger
Lieranym Bryravyn, but even Jaonos wouldn’t tease her about it. “He did seem
tired last night. Actually,” Jaonos sat up and glanced up to their father’s
bedroom window, “it’s not like him to still be in bed this late. Do you suppose
he’s all right?”

Vithian
stood immediately. “I’ll check on him.”

The door
slid shut behind Vithian with a whisper, shutting out the birdsong that had
made the garden feel so lively and cheerful. Inside, the air was oppressive.
Vithian touched the lamp at the base of the stairs to brighten the passageway,
but it only sent eerie shadows scattering across the flower like rats fleeing
from rising water. The house was silent, unmoving, as if it had been filled
with a deadening miasma. Vithian was suddenly reminded of an old elven
superstition: an elf who dies without wind or light on their face would be
trapped in the body forever so that all that remained was an angry spirit once
the body rotted away.

Vithian
shook his head, trying to shake the sudden fear that gripped him. Still, as he
placed his hand on the bannister, he hesitated.

Their
mother’s death had been sudden and unexpected. Perhaps it would have been
better for their father had it not been so, but the shock had rocked the family
to its core. The previous winter had been an anxious one, as their father fell
ill. More than once, they feared they would lose him as well.

“Damn you,
Vithian,” he said to himself. He forced his leaden legs and heavy feet to climb
the stairs.

The upper
floor was even more silent than the floor below, if that were possible. He
could hear the maid Ulesse moving in her room on the third floor, but he heard
nothing from the family’s bedrooms.

The floor
creaked as Vithian stepped toward Flinar’s bedroom door. As a child, Vithian
had thought his parents had made the floor creak so that they would know if any
of their children attempted to sneak out of their rooms. Vithian pressed his
ear to the door, but he heard nothing.

“He wouldn’t
let me bring him breakfast.”

Vithian
jumped and whirled about to see Ulesse leaning over the railing from the stairs
leading up to the third floor. He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Ulesse.”

“He
wouldn’t even let me open the door. Is everything all right?”

“I’m
certain everything’s fine. Go about your work.”

Ulesse
didn’t move from where she stood, though, so Vithian turned away from her and
knocked on the door. He waited, but there was no answer.

“He’s not
answering,” Ulesse whispered from the stairs.

Vithian knocked
again. “Father, we’re all down for breakfast, won’t you join us?”

Once more
there was silence from the room.

“Shall I
get the key?” Ulesse asked.

“Enough,
Ulesse.” He was growing more nervous. In all his life, he never remembered his
father sleeping in.

He cleared
his throat and knocked again. “Father, I’m coming in.” He tried the handle to
find it was unlocked. Vithian hesitated, his heart leaping up to his throat.

Swallowing,
he pushed the door open. He was surprised to see the room was bright and clean,
as if completely untouched. Vithian stepped into the room, frowning to himself.

If the
study was the darkest room of the house, the main bedroom was the brightest. It
was almost completely white, save for the many flowering plants their mother
had grown in the large windows. The large bed was built with a light icewood
and veiled in white lace. It was made, as if it had never been slept in.

Confused,
Vithian stepped further into the room. “Father?” he called. Vithian knew that
Flinar Blackwell would never make his own bed. Had he even been in his bed at
all? “Where in the world did you go?”

Ulesse
pointed, and Vithian turned. The bed wasn’t made. It was completely unmade. The
bedclothes had been pulled off entirely. Vithian stepped in further. He could
see his father’s foot just visible from behind the bed.

Vithian felt
the world spin, but ran to his father’s side, who was laying on the floor
beside his bed, still tangled in his bedclothes. His father’s face was gray and
pale. Vithian knelt beside Flinar and touched his hand, then drew back shaking
his head. His flesh was cool and clammy.

“Is he
dead?” Ulesse asked from the doorway. She was already crying.

As a
postulant, Vithian knew that he would be called to preside over the dead. He
would see no end of corpses. He would be asked to say final rites, to hold
hands, to ease the process of death. And he would say funerary prayers. He
wouldn’t let his father go without the rites he was due. Vithian leaned closer,
placing Flinar’s hands on his chest. He leaned in to kiss his father’s
forehead, but leapt back, nearly falling over himself.

He felt his
father’s breath. Flinar was still alive.

“Ulesse!”
he snapped. “Fetch Dr. Prognes!” Vithian pulled the blankets from Flinar’s legs
and lifted them, hoping to improve the blood flow. Still, the clamminess of his
skin unnerved Vithian.